Sparrows Are Just Small Game
by Daemon faerie queen
Summary: When a rift opens up in Sylar's apartment and spews out a confused Jack Sparrow, the innovative supervillain begins to toy with new evolutionary possibilities. An experiment in indulgence and metafiction. Disclaimer: I own neither character.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Due to my recent Sylar obsession (at least when he's written well), I decided to do what I intended to be a oneshot fic for fun. It got to a point where I realised that my plans for it will probably last at least three chapters, and I figured I'd show what I'd been up to. It's a bit sketchy in places and I'm not really used to writing "quips" so it may get a bit cheesy. But hey, that's what you'd expect with me putting Jack in something yet again. Hopefully Sylar's in character enough to be accepted :) Annoyingly poor Jack doesn't get to do much of the talking. But yes, shut up, silly author. Get on with the story.

* * *

Red droplets trickled thickly down the canvas. The brush sliced through their delicate threads, smearing them into a submissive stain of the artist's choosing. He worked fast, far beyond the speeds of which a normal living entity was capable. It was a wonder the paint had a chance to move at all. More colours were forced into the mix, the brush darting and jabbing under the gaze of blank, white eyes. The picture began to take form. It became apparent that the artist was painting himself within it. A seemingly average, modern man; slim; dark-haired, dark-eyed, jaw faintly traced with stubble, and brow lined with a disconcertingly thick set of eyebrows. The man in the painting was given the same tight-fitting jacket and jeans as his maker. A glimmer of orange light outlined the self-portrayal's hand. Amusement dabbed as an expression onto the face. His created self was fixated upon the image of a familiar, yet surely fabricated person.

He came to an abrupt close and staggered back. The blind white faded, uncovering eyes to match his portrait, deep brown and as unnerving as a space odyssey block. Not a patch of empty canvas remained. Gabriel frowned at the 'prophecy'. He gave the brush a distrustful glance before he focused upon his completed work.

"Interesting," he said. "Doubtful, but interesting. Although, it leads me to wonder what caused me to paint this. I can't remember the last time I saw a movie. Perhaps the gift of foresight has a sense of humour after all."

He held out the brush at arm's length and left it suspended. He stared at it, turning the tool over in the air. Playfully, Gabriel tilted his head and concentrated upon the paintbrush's intricate pieces. One by one the miniscule bristles drifted from their nest, the ferrule slowly unwound from the handle, until all of the components hovered alone. His attention was drawn once again to the canvas. He squinted at something barely noticeable in the bottom right corner, below the unlikely visitor that stood against the backdrop of his apartment – a smudge of smoky blue, in a frame all of its own.

The watchmaker's adopted son gritted his teeth. "I know what that is, and it's gonna ruin the furniture…"

In the few seconds it took for the rift to explode into the centre of Gabriel Gray's home, he spun to divert the assassination attempt made by his airborne sofa. He waved a hand and sent it aside to slam into a bookshelf. The easel and canvas shot backwards into the wall where they rattled in the wind. His eyes darted as he used all of his will to stave off the various household items that launched in the wake of torn reality. A coffee table took a lucky pot shot and cracked him across the temple. Gabriel grimaced slightly, and slumped to the carpet.

When he came to, the apartment had settled. The reverse-whirlpool of blue energy had vanished, leaving the last traces of its din to die in his advanced senses. He sat up, the pieces of a broken lamp sliding off his chest.

"Who are you?" he said to the owner of the beating heart that had been standing behind him. Gray turned to the startled visitor. His eyebrows raised and he gave a snort of laughter. "Impressive likeness. Shame I don't buy it."

The intruder smiled warily. "An impressive likeness to whom? Have we met before?"

Gray got to his feet and clicked his neck, much to the discomfort of the oddly dressed watcher. "No. The last person I knew that could do what you can died in a tragic accident. I have a similar ability, only I need DNA to do it. Somehow I find it unlikely that you've come into contact with Johnny Depp."

The Jack Sparrow doppelganger raised his index fingers to call for a pause in Gray's speech. "I don't 'ave any idea what you are talking about. I don't even know where I am. If you 'ave a quarrel to make, might I suggest you take it elsewhere. I am guiltless in this matter."

Gray stepped closer to the piratically-attired man, a curious frown furrowing his brow. A wave of a tingling sensation had only hit him at the last few moments. "You're not a shapeshifter?"

The pirate gave him a forced grin that shouted '_I'm talking to a madman'_. "No."

It had become clear that whoever this man may be, he had not come here intentionally. He knew nothing of Sylar. Powerful serial killers with identity complexes didn't like people treating them as though they were crazy. At least, not if they didn't look afraid whilst they were doing so. Gray snarled and raised his hand. He curled his fingers in the air and yanked down. An invisible force gripped the pirate's dreadlocks and mirrored Gray's action.

"Ow!"

Gabriel smirked. "You're not Depp either. Tell me who you are."

The pirate began to pick his way about the littered apartment, keeping his eyes averted from the owner, as if trying to deny the cause of the pain in his scalp. "_I_ am _Captain _Jack Sparrow. Apologies for the intrusion. When I find me way out, I'll gladly leave you to whatever it is you entertain yourself with."

No tingle.

"You're not lying…which means either someone has erased your memory and given you an unnecessary fabrication for a life, or…" Gray looked to the centre of the room. "The rift. It's only ever been theory, but every construct built by belief may be found on different planes of existence. Every possibility of thought…" He gave a close-lipped laugh. "You could've been anything from Daffy Duck to God."

Jack pushed a button on a surviving stereo and jumped as the disc tray slid out. His fingers danced close to his chest before he pivoted about to face Gabriel. "And by 'rift', do you mean that big blue wobbly fing what snatched me off me feet? You've seen one before?"

"Yeah, but the last one _sucked_," Gray replied, relishing the bad pun.

"What's your name?"

"Sylar."

"Profession?"

Gray smiled. "Did your mom ever make you soft-boiled eggs and give you bread soldiers to dip with?"

"Er, can't say I remember."

"I do that with brains."

"A surgeon?"

"Something like that."

"Well, mister Sylar," said Jack, edging to the nearest window. "Would you be so kind as to tell me where I am?" He twitched worriedly at the small glimpse of the world past the blinds.

Gabriel picked up the coffee table and wiped his blood from its corner. He set it back into place. "That's a little complicated."

"Enlighten me."

"You're in Queens, New York."

"New York? This looks nothing akin. New York's barely been born and bothering the natives. Not even the cleanest streets of London compare to what's down there. Or even what's in 'ere." Jack glanced about the apartment. "I don't even know what to call 'alf the knickknacks lying around, nor 'ow you managed to plug a ball of light on a stick into the ceiling, and I don't normally go around telling people how little I know about some'ing unless I think it'll get me somewhere. You're a magician, aren't you?"

Gray smiled darkly. "I always liked parties."

"What self-respecting gentleman doesn't?" Sparrow said idly. He turned away from the window and pressed his palms together hopefully. "Look, mate, I never meant to offend you, if that is in fact what I did. Just tell me how to make amends, I'll buy you a drink to square it, and you can just pop me back 'ome, savvy?"

"If you had offended me, _Jack_, you probably wouldn't be alive to contemplate it. I didn't bring you here. You did that on your own. I haven't yet harvested the ability to cross time and space, and by the looks of things I'd rather let it wait." He rolled his eyes when the pirate looked confused. "You're in the future. Well, _a _future. You don't exist here. You're just a story. Too bad for you."

Jack narrowed his kohl-circled eyes. Then he nodded decisively and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Outside." The pirate turned the handle and marched through.

"That's the bathroom."

"'S got no bath in it," Jack's grumble echoed off the tiles before he re-emerged.

"It's an expression. I wouldn't go outside if I were you."

"Why not?"

"Jack Sparrow goes walking through the streets of New York alone? You'll get mobbed by thousands of screaming women, which sounds a lot less fatal and a lot more appealing than it actually is."

Jack paused, halfway to the front door. "Three of 'em's painful enough," he muttered. "But it's a risk I'm willing to take." He moved to let himself out. There was a loud _click _as the door locked itself. The security chain drew across merely for show.

"I love that silence."

Sparrow turned slowly. "Silence?"

"The one people's hearts make when something startles them."

Jack grimaced in fear and tried the door handle to be certain. It gave the hollow clunk of futility.

Gray inhaled smugly. "If you truly are made up out of belief, then perhaps you aren't flesh and blood. Imagine being able to break apart a construct of projected energies and using them to make anything you wanted…out of thought. You could be the key, Jack. I'd like to see how that works…"

With one hand, Gabriel paralysed the pirate on the spot and began to draw him back into the main body of the room. His other hand gestured to the discarded sofa, tilting it upright once more and sliding it violently back into position, the coffee table only just escaping via a quick upward leap. Jack was whisked through the air and deposited onto the couch. His eyes flicked nervously as the apartment began to tidy itself around them.

Gray's lips turned up at the corners in a satisfied manner. "Stay."

Jack felt his muscles relax from the unseen grip that had held them. He sat up carefully but did not move otherwise. "What _are _you?"

"Unique."

Sparrow winced, his eyeline glancing briefly below Gabriel's waist. "Well 's not any business o' mine. If you 'ave a complaint, per'aps you should take it up with the doctor and 'is knife?"

Pressure squeezed suddenly at the pirate's windpipe.

"I said _unique_, Jack, not eunuch. Now hold still while I maim you…" Gray lifted his right index finger and pointed it at Sparrow's forehead. He hesitated. "No. That would spoil the fun. A shallow cut first…" His poised finger drifted lower, and then drew swiftly across the air. A thin line of red slit across Jack's cheek, making him hiss.

"How disappointing. You do bleed." Gray raised an eyebrow. "Which is quite a thing for me to be disappointed about. Let's try going deeper." He gestured and puppeteered Jack's arm into stretching outward. "I hope you're not too attached to your hand. It's about to part ways."

Jack watched, horrified, as Gabriel's finger sliced vertically, and…nothing happened. He blinked and looked toward his outstretched arm. He waggled his fingers to confirm that they were still responding. Gray's expression was contorted into frustration. The finger cut down again. Jack flinched. Again, not a scratch marked his wrist.

"Hah…" said Gray. "Clever." He slashed his finger at Jack's face. A matching line of blood seared the pirate's other cheek. "Still works. But only shallow cuts. I can work around that." Gray sliced horizontally, in line with Jack's throat. His jaw dropped. Jack's neck was unblemished. "How are you doing that?"

"I don't know, and if I find out, I'm not bloody well telling you."

Teeth bared, Gray leapt forward and grasped the pirate's throat. "You won't need to find out," he growled and tapped Jack's forehead with his other hand. "There's always manually. First, I'll put on some new clothes." Starting at his aimed finger, Gray's entire form warped, twisted and rearranged until, crouching before Jack, was an identical copy of Captain Sparrow. Gray shook himself at the transformation's discomfort then opened his eyes and smirked. "Now this is a skin I could get used to. Bit dirtier than I expected, but not bad." He drew Sparrow's cutlass from its sheath.

"I'm rather fond of it meself," Jack responded with a feeble smile. "So I'll thank you to feel the pain for both of us." Gray's disorientation on his side, Jack brought his boot up and slammed it into the mimic of his own face. He scrambled off the sofa and ran for the door, hoping to break through.

The dazed Gray twisted his pirate hand and telekinetically knocked Jack's feet out from under him. He got up, stalked toward the floored Sparrow and grinned down with gold and silver capped teeth. The cutlass rose high.

Jack rolled onto his back and winced. "Parlay?"

Sylar-Jack laughed and brought the sword down towards Jack's skull. A lightning-fast movement: the pistol was drawn and a shot blasted between Gabriel's eyes. Jack's eyes. Sparrow breathed a sigh of relief as his impersonator hit the ground, his weapon thudding alongside.

And gradually, the body began to morph back into the form of Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray...


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Forgive me, Jack...

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Red pain. Black consciousness. Græy identity. Brown eyes lost their mist as the shot was pushed on a reverse trajectory by knitting tissue. A repetitive thudding awoke his senses and Gabriel drew breath. He sat up. The bloodied piece of ammunition dropped into his waiting palm. Jack was hurling himself over and over into the thick wood of the front door.

"Honestly…" Gray said after the pirate had bruised his shoulder further. "Is that any way for a guest to behave?"

Sparrow swallowed and looked back to the ex-corpse. "Whatever happened to the good old days when people stayed dead?"

Gray smiled and held his hand out. The pistol shot launched from his palm and stopped dead in front of Jack's face.

"I'm gifted." Gabriel reached out towards the hovering shot and clicked his finger and thumb. It disintegrated into filings. He stood up. "You might say I'm a pirate myself. All those shiny treasures of abilities out there just waiting to be plundered."

Jack leaned against the immovable door, fancying he could feel the freedom through the wood grain. "You're saying you aren't the only one with powers?"

"Humans have evolved. Their capabilities are almost limitless."

Jack smirked. "I thought you said you were unique."

"Most people only have _one _ability. I used mine to collect more. There have been similar cases but only I have this particular combination."

"Dare I ask what your original ability entails? Or is it simply a matter of lopping off 'egg tops' without a spoon?" the pirate inquired sourly.

"I thought you'd never ask." Gabriel started to raise his hand.

No sooner did Jack feel the tug of his limbs, he complained, "I have feet. Allow me the luxury of walking."

Gray shrugged and relaxed his grip. Sparrow moved from the door, slinked past Gray and seated himself on the sofa.

"I understand how things work, Captain. Items, people, matter; it's all the same. Puzzle pieces, clearer than if the age on the box were three-to-five years. All I have to do is look inside them and find out what makes them tick. Only I can't seem to crack you, Jack, at least not with my abilities. All this time we've been talking, I've tried to kill you and you've not so much as flaked. Well, I've discovered your secret. Just a couple more tests to be certain."

"I don't _have _a se-."

Gray pointed his thumb skyward and his index finger at the window. "Bang," he said, and the glass shattered. Casually, he suspended the shards and turned them in the direction of the apartment. He let them fly straight at Jack. Sparrow yelped as his flesh was peppered with the glittering splinters. The tops of his arms, the backs of his hands and a few places on his cheeks were pierced with glass. The rest of the onslaught, all the deadly slivers, had stopped short and dropped to the carpet.

"Bugger…bugger…bugger…" the pirate repeated quietly as though it were some warped prayer.

"Aha…" Gray said, smiling. "And finally…" Blue energy crackled at his fingertips, in his eyes, and then coursed visibly about him. He thrust his hands forward and sent electricity streaming into Sparrow's chest.

Jack screamed. Seemingly from nowhere he found the instinct to dodge aside, snatched a glass of water from the coffee table and hurled it over Gray. It was Gabriel's turn to scream. He dropped to his knees, the once blue lightning sizzling white. He gritted his teeth and stopped the current.

"As…I thought…" Gray gasped. "It makes sense. Someone's pulling the strings."

Jack looked to him groggily, unable to voice the question.

"There was no glass of water on the table," said Gray. "I didn't put it there and you didn't have time. You should be dead, and you'd never have been able to shoot me when I was looking right at you. No, we're not in control. We're being manipulated by written word. But I know now. I _understand_ now. We are just pawns to the whims of an Author. An Author who thinks she has the right to keep referring to me as 'Gabriel Gray' when she should know better. She seems to have a soft spot for you, Jack, but unfortunately for her, she tried to write _me_. She may as well have written this story in blood." Gray sneered at Sparrow with a sense of pity. "Don't plan on any long-term arrangements. I have to see a certain creator, but I'll be back minus these pesky plotholes that seem to be working in your favour. I know how she works."

Gray stared into the fourth wall and drifted his palm before him. He shifted aside a section of his fabricated reality and saw the other world. He looked up and locked eyes with me. The murderous, heart-stopping smile crossed his lips.

"Surprise," he said, and pointed.

I began to scr-

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I am become God, and boy was the last one messy. I'm referring, of course, to the state of her home, not the scalped heap I had to shove out of the computer chair to take over. Chocolate wrappers and scrawled notes all over the desk, tea-stained cups... how humbling to find one of your makers to be a slob. A slob with poor taste at that. She's even got a giant poster of Jack pouting down at me from the wall. Could be worse, I guess. I'm flattered that she didn't picture me as some stupid sparkly vampire kid. She might've had potential.

I took her ability, that bright shining squelch of cellular tissue that she used to create me, her imagined concept of Sylar. If I took it quick enough, before the last thread of life broke and rendered me non-existent, I could create myself. Here I am compelled to sit before the screen and place my fingers on the keys. I have to continue the story. I can't move. I can't explore. I have to write myself back in. Damn it. You can't do this to me. I can't stay here. Nothing can hold me. I am Sylar. I am _Sylar_! I am…

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Sylar groaned and opened his eyes to the familiar surroundings of his bedroom. "A bit cliché, but it worked." He jumped off the bed and walked into the living room. Jack was standing by the paneless window, pencil-lines of blood still etched on his face. The glass that had pincushioned his hands and arms had been removed and the wounds patched up with strips of bandage.

"Oh, you're back," he said, disgruntled. "Don't s'pose you've given any further thought to letting me go?"

"I couldn't possibly do that. I still haven't found out how you work."

"I'm just human. Like you, but without all that voodoo nonsense."

"Like me? Yes, I suppose I am now a construct of my own belief. But to kill myself to find out? It seems an unnecessary risk when I could just take you apart instead."

"You're creating yourself?" Jack scoffed. "Prove it."

Sylar gave a sly smile.

Captain Sparrow suddenly dropped to his knees and announced, "All hail the omnipotent master of the universe, Sylar!" He blinked. "Oi!"

Sylar laughed. "Now that's fun." Then he frowned. "Where did the bandages come from? I don't need a first aid kit. Someone's been here, haven't they?"

Jack averted his gaze as he got to his feet.

"Sparrow…who helped you?"

"No one," the pirate said firmly.

"You just made me tingle, and that's not a good thing. I can just make you tell me with a few written words."

Jack scowled. "There was a girl. I don't know who she was and she didn't say anything to me. She cleaned me up and left. Out the window."

"She flew?"

"I'd say walked."

"Interesting. Did she do anything else?"

"No," Jack replied.

"You're lying."

"Fine. She stabbed me in the arm with a needle and put some'ing in me." He nodded to a discarded syringe that lay on the carpet.

Sylar stalked over and picked it up. Its history cycled into his memory before he felt something mentally smack him and he dropped it. "It's _her_. She's still alive. Sneaky bitch planted herself into the story. She knew I would come for her."

Jack smiled wryly. "She did write you."

"That version of me. I'm writing this one. Apparently she's managed to weave herself a few loopholes. She's even put a block on any history of the contents of the syringe before she entered my apartment. Another sickeningly convenient plothole. She should write for Hollywood."

"So _omnipotent _Sylar, write yourself out of it."

Sylar ground his teeth. There was something about the way Sparrow enunciated the word, as though he'd said 'impotent'. "It's not that simple. Creativity doesn't seem to follow the same pattern as the workings of science. I understand how it works in relation to human interaction, the poetic application of my abilities, but writing my own destiny? Tedious. No one has the right to control what happens to me. Not even me."

"Sounds bonkers if you ask me," Jack muttered. Consequently he was slammed into the wall with a wave of Sylar's hand.

"I can't even control _you_ entirely," Sylar snarled.

Still pinned to the wall, his feet dangling uselessly above the ground, Jack hissed, "Maybe you don't want to. Would be a pretty pathetic excuse for a story if I 'ad to go around acting all pally, wouldn' it?"

Sylar stopped pushing. Jack did not drop. They exchanged glances. The pirate looked down at his hovering boots.

"You can fly…" the watchmaker growled.

Jack grinned. "And if it wasn't for you, I'd never 'ave known. Ta," he said, and leapt out of the window.

Sylar sighed. He closed his eyes and let his feet rise from the floor. Telekinetic powers needed a lot more concentration to make a man fly, and manoeuvring was irritating, but it was doable. He drifted to the window and out into the airspace above the street.

"I assume this 'as some'ing to do with the bee-sting donated to me by our dear missy Author?" Jack called from the roof of a high-rise. His eyes were wide with the sight of the advanced world below him.

"Don't you feel even the least bit insignificant knowing you were being written?" Sylar floated upward to match height with the pirate.

Jack shrugged. "If she likes me, what 'ave I to worry about? What's more, if I get on the right side of 'er, what's to stop me from getting everything I ever wanted?"

"You're going to sweet-talk an Author?" Sylar said, amused. "Now why didn't I think of that?"

"You just wanted 'er for 'er brain."

"True."

Sylar raised a hand, but Jack was too fast. He soared across to the rooftops of the next block, turned and bowed mockingly.

"Sooner or later you'll slip up, Jack. Flight can only get you so far."

"'S far enough for me if I can outrun you."

A click. The bricks under the pirate's boots broke down into minute particles, taking him by surprise. Sylar's will tangled around Jack and reeled him in. The watchmaker grabbed the pirate at the lapels.

"You slipped."

Jack tried to wrench the hand off him. Something jolted as his fingers touched Sylar's skin. Sylar shot him a momentary glare, before he gasped and dropped out of the sky. On instinct, Jack reached down, even though the watchmaker was too far. Sylar's descent halted. Both of them gawped.

"You stole my telekinesis."

"Your what?"

"My ability to move things with my mind," Sylar snapped, scowling. "You stole it. How?"

Jack grinned. "Pirate." He considered their height. "Your rather versatile method of survival with the shot. Does it work with long falls?"

"Will I survive if you were to just drop me? Most definitely."

"That's a shame. Goodbye, Mr Sylar."

Sparrow withdrew his hand and let the watchmaker fall. Not waiting to see the impact, he flew out towards the Atlantic.

After peeling himself out of the tarmac, a few pedestrians shrieking nearby, Sylar readjusted his collarbone and let himself mend. He glowered up at the empty sky.

"Perhaps I'm going to need a spoon after all."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** *Whimper* Don't maim me. Anyone noticing a pattern with these chapter beginnings? ;P

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Red sunset's light seeped across the broken glass that gleamed upon the carpet like some kind of macabre confetti. It had been several hours since the manifested movie character had surpassed the horizon and Sylar was beginning to loathe how much he had relied on the power that had been taken. Even if it weren't for the fact that he was writing the story and himself within it, he would still have suspected that Jack would head for the ocean. Yet, without the means to fly and considering the vastness of the body of water, there was little point wasting time on the search. He would get the pirate back soon enough. If Sylar remembered correctly, which, considering the enhanced memory capability he had acquired from Ms Andrews in the diner, he _did_, Jack possessed a compass that could lead him to the thing he most wanted. Feasibly, anything Sparrow could ever want, now that he knew he had been written, would be provided by the girl, the Author. He would head for her.

Sylar swept up the glass with a dustpan and brush, appreciating the pieces in their deadly beauty. He took his time putting the apartment in order. There was no rush. Soon they would both be here and he wouldn't have to do so much as step outside. All that was required was a succession of bait.

It wasn't particularly clever, and it was sure to be tacky, but she wouldn't be able to resist. And so, the watchmaker sat back in his armchair and closed his eyes to avoid the nausea that the world was sure to cause him over the course of the story's next few sentences…

_Sila woz bord so he desided 2 wotch sum tv bcoz even supavilluns need 2 relax he diddunt hav his tellykn- telka- ablitee 2 move things ne mor so he woz anoid & cudden b bovvad 2 find da remoat…_

That was enough. It had only taken the first word, really (wow, was she a stickler…) but he had continued long enough, not only for her to burst through the window-space, but to be sufficiently knotted in agony on the apartment floor. Sylar's eyes snapped open. He smirked at the writhing Author.

"I'm touched you care so much for my integrity. You turned out to be more pedantic than I expected. I hadn't even gotten around to misplaced apostrophes."

The Author moaned in exhausted fury and tried to reach out for him with a clawing hand. Sylar seized her arm, wrenched it behind her back and dragged her upright.

"I expected better of you, too," she hissed. "Resorting to butchering the art of language. Pfft."

"For you, words speak louder than actions, which is exactly why you got yourself into this mess in the first place." Sylar spun her around to face him and drew his hand up like a poised cobra. She froze, transfixed under his marionette spell. He walked her around and guided her into the armchair that he had vacated. Keeping her entranced, he backed off until he reached the sofa. His free hand snatched up the roll of tape he had set aside for her arrival and he began to secure her. "Stupid girl, didn't you realise what the consequences would be? Writing a character with such a capacity for awareness, and worse still, a character that wasn't even yours to begin with? You lost control." The tape buzzed harshly as he finished binding her to the chair. "You were playing games out of your depth and you…quite simply…lost." He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned over her, eyes gloating and fierce.

"Hypocrite," she said. "You're writing the story now, so you tell _me _how easy it is to keep a character in line."

Sylar's cool withered at the edges. He said nothing.

"You've tried governing your own actions," she continued, "and you can change the little things, but you're as trapped as I am. You could have given yourself any ability you could think of, just by writing in a poor excuse, if you even wanted to bother with one, but you wouldn't do that. Where would the sense of progression come from? What would happen to the point of your existence when there's nothing left to attain? Yet, what about the things that you _could _do: change the genre, live out your fantasies, ensure that there was no way you could ever be stopped…?"

The watchmaker stepped back. "I won't be."

The Author smiled wryly. "What about Jack?"

Sylar sneered. "Are you implying that an incompetent antihero from an idealized fiction, designed mostly to keep kids entertained and make women fall over themselves, is a match for me?"

"I'm implying you shouldn't underestimate him."

"I'm _writing _him."

Her eyes shone with impending triumph. "So where is he?"

Sylar bared his teeth.

"You can't plan out his every move," the Author stated. "You can't write 'everything'. Writers create, readers imagine, characters…live. They run away from you. Sooner or later, the story writes itself."

He paced the room, trying to contain his agitation. "I should understand this. I took your ability. I need to fix it, make the story listen."

"We're not in a timepiece, Sylar. There are too many ways this can go and there's only one way to fix a watch. You're not contending with something that is broken."

"It's incomplete -."

"That's not the same thing."

"I've always been able to fine-tune abilities, to make them perfect," he muttered. Realisation crossed his features. "But there's no such thing as a perfect story."

"Bingo," she whispered.

Sylar looked at the restrained Author shrewdly. "That still doesn't mean your pathetic rendition of a pirate can stop me." Her smirking response caused his nostrils to flare. "You gave him a few abilities, fine. That makes it more challenging. He can fly and he can steal one power at a time if I get too close. More of a Petrelli brothers combo. As for the resistance to fatal damage from abilities – if I haven't managed to undo that already – I'll just kill him with my bare hands. There's nothing impressive about him."

She grinned. "_If _you say so."

His temper boiled over; the coffee table was forced to kamikaze against the wall after being snatched up in his hands.

The Author pouted. "That thing's had a tough day."

Sylar whirled on her, tendrils of white-blue light beginning to make tesla coils out of his arms. Without his telekinesis to vent his anger upon inanimate objects, it was between electric and nuclear. The latter was a waste.

"I am better than him!" he yelled. The ceiling lamp stuttered uncontrollably. "I have power; I have depth; I have style… I am _real_." The childish bitterness clung to his tone. "I can be anything anyone desires. Anything _I _desire. I am a lone future."

The Author squinted against the blinding surges. She shouted over the crackling air, "And none of it matters! You both have identity issues. You're both determined to have one big pissing contest with the rest of the world. It doesn't matter if you storm in and take it all on as you do, or if you bounce around aimlessly like him. It's about territory, it's about proving yourself to everyone that's ever known you or that ever will know you, it's about freedom and, you might as well face it, it's about _sex_."

Sylar's current fizzled out. "That's bleak, even for you."

"That's the nutshell," she said. "Are you done getting me to talk about the psychology of the human condition or can we get to the fighting now?"

He snorted. "You're gonna fight me strapped to a chair?" He caught the sound of another heartbeat too late.

"Much as I'd love to see that, mate, I'm inclined to wager she meant me."

Jack, hovering in the open doorway to silence his footfalls, splayed his palm towards Sylar. With a deft flip of the pirate's hand, the watchmaker was thrown upward and pinned to the ceiling. Sylar struggled, desperate to free a hand to retaliate, but it was futile. Sparrow dropped into a walk and made for the Author who smiled up at him expectantly. The hand that was not holding Sylar in place reached towards her bonds. The end of the tape quivered. The Captain hesitated. She gave him a puzzled frown.

Jack looked to Sylar and back to her. "Make me like 'im," he said.

"_What_?"

"I want to do what he can. Not to use it for anyfing bad, just…to ensure I can do what I want. I won't 'arm anyone what doesn't attack me first. I'll live as I always 'ave done but with a few extra tricks up me sleeve. Make me the immortal Captain Jack Sparrow. That's all I ask, and I'll get you out."

She bit her lip. "No."

"Why not?"

"I want you to achieve immortality, Jack, don't get me wrong, but you have to find it yourself."

Sylar sniggered. Sparrow pouted momentarily. Then he drew his sword. He put the point to her chest, uncertainty in his face, and murmured, "Then I ain't askin'. I don't like 'urting people, especially not young lasses, but I want to survive."

"You're talking to the wrong person, Captain. She's not in a position to write anyone's destiny." Sylar smirked. "But I am." He yelled without forming words and let out a stream of sonic waves that knocked Jack off his feet. The watchmaker fell to the carpet.

Jack got up only to be puppeteered into surrender. Sylar picked up the discarded sword and beckoned to the pirate. Sparrow whimpered as his disobedient feet carried him towards the waiting psychopath.

"That bandanna's gonna have to hold more than your hair in place, Jack. I don't think it's up to the task." Sylar swung back the sword, ready to strike.

At the last possible moment, the Author slipped a trainer to the end of her toes and kicked out. The shoe clubbed the watchmaker between the shoulder blades, interrupting his action. Jack grabbed for the sword, snatching at Sylar's wrist. The watchmaker gritted his teeth and tried to prise away Jack's grip. Sparrow gasped as his hand filled with the unfathomable pain of burning cold, the surface of the skin frosting over. He cried out and let go, but Sylar kept hold of him. Sylar gave one last murderous glance before he drove the cutlass point through Sparrow's chest.

Jack gasped soundlessly for the air that no longer coursed through his brain and the blood that lay dormant throughout his system of fleshy belief. He collapsed, his kohl-rimmed eyes dulling, his skin paling, until at last he lay still.

Sylar held up his hands as they glistened wetly with the pirate's blood. He grinned at the Author, whose distress delighted him, and approached her.

"Now can you see how much better I am? I understand the hurt, the loss, the faith you had in him, but now you can invest in _me_. Let _me _be your obsession. Idolise me, make me a god in this image, keep writing me; write only me. Write my existence until your last breath is your belief in me. Tell me…" He sank to his knees before her, half triumphant, half pleading, fully crazed. "Tell me I'm _special_."

At first it seemed she would cry. Tears flecked her bottom lashes and she trembled. Then came the laughter. Bitter, wild laughter that struck Sylar to the core, the kind of laughter he had heard when he had tried to argue that he would ever amount to anything when he grew up. The kind that upset the cogs in his beautifully, _perfectly_, crafted watches because it didn't appreciate the little things. He was _good _with little things. Why did people only ever want the big stuff to happen?

In fury he brought his index finger up to point at her forehead. There was only the smallest fraction of time between the end of laughter and the dawn of screaming. Blood trickled at her hairline just above the temple.

Sylar stopped. The return of his telekinesis, the power he had first stolen, spurred his creativity. Wordlessly, he stood and turned. He slid the skewered Sparrow across the carpet with a gesture of his hand and let him come to rest at the Author's feet.

"This isn't the kind of theatre I had in mind to take you to," Sylar quipped. "But the show's good enough for me. You're not squeamish, are you?"

She looked up at him, groggy with pain and horror. Her lips parted to utter some semblance of a syllable, but he snapped the beak of his fingers and thumb together, clamping her mouth shut.

"Sshh. The curtain's going up." Sylar patted her hand, leaving behind a bloody imprint. "Are you sitting comfortably?" He touched the arm of the chair. Little by little the soft texture of the armchair solidified into pure gold. The Author flinched at the cold surface.

Sylar cast his hand out towards the dead pirate and willed the sword to withdraw. It rose into the air, gleaming red. Under his direction, the cutlass drifted into the space above Jack's head, the blade's edge aligned horizontally with his brow. The watchmaker coiled his bloody fingers about a lock of the Author's hair and tucked it behind her ear. Holding the sword poised for its gruesome surgery, he leaned in to whisper.

"It's time to see just how _precious _Jack Sparrow really is…"


End file.
